


Requests

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blind Thranduil, Engagement, Good Dad Thranduil, Humor, Meeting the Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1211461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil is willing to give Legolas and Gimli his permission and his hospitality--but not his blessing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requests

**Author's Note:**

> I started work on this two months ago and haven't touched it since January; originally it was meant to be part of a larger piece and then I was like HEY wouldn't it be fun to fix it up for Gigolas Week in the two hours I have left of day four? Yeah, super fun. Also, if anyone hasn't seen this really cool headcanon on Thranduil's scars/possible being blind, I adore it and work it into most of my Thranduil fics. tw for images of intense scarring: http://aiffe.tumblr.com/post/70264082311/what-do-your-elf-eyes-see-so-basically-i-had
> 
> The ending is totally not at all in tone with the rest of the piece and I'm probably going to edit/extend it a bit in the future, but yeah.

The Dwarf had been in Eryn Lasgalen for three weeks when Thranduil finally spoke to him. He had been polite, painfully so, and as kind as he was capable of being—even his son had not heard a single angry word from him, beyond his initial shock. If his cupbearers and one or two trusted companions had heard otherwise, well, no one was going to tell.

Still, he never made preparations for the betrothal feast Legolas was silently waiting for, and he always managed to avoid one-on-one conversations with his son’s intended—until he walked one day into his personal, private study and found Gimli waiting for him.

“How did you get in here?” Thranduil asked in a voice that would have sliced every last strip of bark from a sapling tree.

To his immense disappointment, the Dwarf turned around looking as calm as anything, his feet shoulder-length apart and one hand clasped around his forearm.

“I found someone who could unlock the door. Several people, in fact, until I found one who thought it would be funny if you found me here and threw me out on my head. It didn’t take long.”

It was not a bad idea—and it was one that would never have occurred to Thranduil himself. If anything, that only made him more furious.

“ _Out_ ,” he hissed.

“Aye. If you will listen to what I mean to say. _Listen_ , mind, not merely hear. You have been hearing me for three weeks as the mountain hears the wind, and I am tired of it.” Gimli waited until Thranduil, biting back a thousand curses, nodded. When he spoke, his voice was even gruffer than usual, and lower. He did not wish to be overheard. “You do not think kindly of my race. You doubt that I can be loyal to Legolas; you have seen the madness that haunts my line, and you fear that lust for gold will overcome me. Lady Galadriel has foreseen that it will not be so, but to see the future is never easy, and perhaps the Eldar cannot foretell the fates of Dwarves. All of these are just and reasonable fears, Elvenking—and still I say to you, they are wrong.”

“I am well acquainted with my own thoughts, Master Dwarf, and care not for your clumsy retelling of them. If you think I will stay my hand in order to placate my son, then _you_ shall soon be proved otherwise.”

“I do not seek to tell you your thoughts. I come to tell of my people, for we do not love as Elves nor Men nor Hobbits love. We are not a people made for uncertainty; the one you call Aule crafted us from stone, and so we are as stone, which is rarely understood by those who do not craft it. It is not an element meant to change once it has found its shape, and nor are we. From the moment of our birth, we know our True Names, given to us by our Maker. Whatever tragedy may befall us, whatever we must suffer or endure, we know who we are.

“And so it is in love. Like Elves, Dwarves take only one spouse for as long as they live. The difference is that—so Legolas has told me—your souls are not bound until you are wed. Young Elves sometimes court one another seriously before deciding that they are not to be, and betrothals can be broken, though rarely. Is this not so?”

“It is,” Thranduil admitted, loathe though it was to hear his people’s customs spoken so from a Dwarf. He could not help but want to hear Gimli’s words. The Dwarves did not part with their secrets lightly, and he had only ever heard rumors of their True Names.

 _A strange gift to be granted to them_ , a voice whispered in his mind. _Unwanted though they are_. He tapped his fingers against his elbow and reminded himself that this Dwarf, at least, was wanted desperately, by his foolish, fanciful, brave son. For that, at least, he deserved consideration.

“It is not so for Dwarves. It may take some time for us to find our One, but it is impossible to mistake a flirtation for a great love, and betrothal is as good as marriage to us. The time between engagement and wedding is meant only to give us time to prepare our halls. If a Dwarf cannot be with their One, then they will have no other. Your son holds my heart in his hands forever—here and now, in the Halls of Mandos beyond the end of the world.”

He spoke simply, and Thranduil mulled over the words for a long, silent moment. Whole minutes passed; he barely noticed them. As he grew older, he found that the world moved faster, and it irritated him. He would not hasten his thoughts for the benefit of _time_ , or those beings who valued it more highly.

“I will say this for you, Gimli son of Gloin,” Thranduil finally murmured, in a voice as light as a spider’s silken thread. “You have a stout heart, and I understand why he loves you. You seek something that I cannot give you; never will you receive my blessing. But go now—see that the preparations for a betrothal feast are begun, if you will have it so. The halls of Eryn Lasgalen will receive your kin.”

There was a long pause.

“You… withhold your blessing, but give your permission?”

“I do. No Elf needs their parents’ permission in order to wed, and I will not earn my son’s hatred by defying him on this matter. Yet do not think that I am glad, or that I will be surprised when you leave him. Now go.”

Gimli walked to the door and opened it, but his hand rested on the aged wood and he did not leave. His iron boots clanged against the floor and Thranduil imagined his shoulders squaring like a soldier facing the battlefield. There was anger in his voice.

“I have said it already, and I am not accustomed to having my word doubted—but once more I will tell you. Legolas is my One, and I am made to stand at his side. I will not leave him.”

As stubborn and sure as a child. Thranduil’s heart ached and he let out a ghostly sigh.

“Oh, Master Dwarf. In the end, you will have no choice.”

\---

The feast went tolerably well, all things considered. The Dwarves had clearly been briefed on the difference between their table manners and Elvish ones, and while a few did _insist_ on dancing on the tables or throwing food every once in a while (which, his future son-in-law informed him sheepishly, really _was_ customary), there was no actual fight during the meal, and most of his people were able to dodge quickly enough to save their clothes and hair from flying morsels. Thranduil managed to pass a civil dinner with Gloin, Dwalin, and Bofur by ignoring them completely, and exchanged some rather cordial words with Gimli’s mother.

It wasn’t until Legolas took Gimli’s hand and led him to the center of the room that Thranduil felt panic tighten around his heart.

“My heart tells me that we two should be wed,” Legolas said in a clear voice that rang through the hall and brokered instant silence, and Thranduil didn’t need to see it to know that his smile was more brilliant than the sun. “What does your heart say?”

“My heart is like your heart,” Gimli replied, though the customary words sounded clumsy on his tongue. Thranduil closed his eyes—they would be exchanging silver rings now. “When my halls are finished, we shall be wed!”

There was a burst of cheers, stamping feet, toasts, laughter, singing—and then it hushed. Thranduil realized he was standing, and his heart hammered as he smiled and spread his arms.

“Let the union of your hearts bring you joy, and the same of our houses. I await the day with pleasure, and yet, Gimli son of Gloin, I must beg a favor. Among my people, it is the custom to allow our children to decide the way of their heart, and for parents to make only one request so that we might ensure their happiness. Will you hear my request?”

“I will, Thranduil-King,” Gimli said in a guarded voice.

“It is thus: much I have heard of the beauty of the Glittering Caves, and eagerly does my son speak of the colony you shall form there, when you have the permission of your noble kin. The departure of Legolas to Ithilien, and you who will be my son to Aglarond, grieves me, and it would be a comfort to see you wed in those very caves, when your halls are completed.”

“So it shall be,” the dwarf agreed, and turned to Legolas again. Together, they raised their voices.

“Hail, parents and kin! Hail, friends! When our halls are finished, we shall be wed!”

Thranduil sat and sipped his wine, and wondered if anyone else could hear the twin notes of despair in their voices.

\---

He was sitting on his throne in complete silence when his son confronted him.

“Adad,” Legolas said, the word falling in the silence like a pebble into a well. “Why did you ask that of him?”

“I have told you, Legolas,” Thranduil said monotonously. He was thinking of his own betrothal ceremony, and the silver ring he kept locked away in his chambers so that he would never be forced to look upon it again. His fingers traced the grains in the wood of the throne. “I would have you well treated and happy, and to stand beside your bound one—”

“No,” his son interrupted. His voice was shrewd and angry. “I asked not for the lies you spoke at the feast. You know well that, for the Dwarves’ custom to be fulfilled, the Glittering Caves need only be prepared enough for two—no mean feat, given the extent they reach already. We could be married here, or in Erebor, and retire there at our leisure. Your request means that Gimli must prepare feast halls and kitchens and fireplaces and bedchambers for many more than just us. It will take _years_. Yet you know he cannot refuse, not when he is so eager to earn your approval. Tell me why you are so eager to withhold it.”

Thranduil tilted his head, his sightless eyes widening. It was a look he had perfected many times, to give the appearance of studying someone very closely, and usually provoked unease. Now he did it almost out of habit, because he knew that Legolas would not be unsettled. His son had _never_ spoken like that, not before he left. His voice rang through the halls, commanding and… regal. The light heart, the curiosity and eagerness that had always accompanied Legolas’s words was gone. He stood before Thranduil now, his stance firm and his posture as stiff and strong as Dwarven diamonds.

Thranduil had never been so proud, and anguish struck his heart.

“Ion…” he breathed. He stepped closer, and he wanted to reach out to touch his son’s cheek, but he checked the movement. He had the unpleasant feeling that if he tried to touch Legolas now, having slighted his beloved, the prince might reach for his knife. Instead, the king turned back and sat on his throne. “Nay, my son,” he said quietly. “I do not withhold my love. He is as fine a being as I might wish to hold your heart. I seek only to give you _time_. Your actions have consequences you do not yet foresee, and the value of time is never truly understood by the young.”

As quickly as the sun having kissed the horizon sinks below it, the anger bled out from Legolas’s posture, only to be replaced with pity and a love as gentle as the first faint stars. He stepped closer to the throne and slowly knelt—a gesture of supplication, for all that he still had not shucked the dignity of a prince.

“I know the value of time, ada, as I know the pulse of my heart and the kiss of the wind. I have learnt the value of seconds when he is threatened and my hands move without command, eager to deal death to those who bear ill will towards my beloved. I have learned the value of minutes in the halls of Helm’s Deep, when I knew not whether he lived, and nearly died of grief but for faith in him. Hours I learnt when he brought me back, to the great caverns that lay beneath the mountain and showed me the splendors of his heart and the hopes that he cherished for the life we might make together. Days and weeks I learned to revere in Rohan, in Gondor, in Fangorn and across nameless hills, for every day I may recall in perfect clarity, if Gimli Gloin’s son was by my side. Years, decades, centuries are so cheap when I think back on those I have languished waiting for my One, and are more precious than mithril and starlight when I think of those that lie before us.”

“And when he goes where you cannot follow?” Thranduil asked, his voice no more than the barest whisper. His fingers smoothed over his son’s brow, and he felt Legolas flinch. “When the years stretch on and on and you have nothing but your memories… there is no light that can pierce the darkness, no flame that can break the cold, no comfort that can push aside the grief. I _will not_ wish that fate on you, my child.”

“But am I to condemn to it the one I love?” Legolas asked, and his beautiful voice was shattered. “I cannot look him in the eye and say that I refuse him my affection for all his mortal life, simply because I am afraid. Faithfulness he has promised me, and faithful I will be in return. I have made my choice. Beyond the end of the world, I am his.”

Thranduil ran a hand through Legolas’s golden hair silently, and sighed.

“Well matched, you are,” he murmured. “For in all my long years, I have never encountered two so stubborn. Come, Legolas, dry your tears. Where is Gimli’s father? I must speak with him.”

“In their chambers—all the family is meeting there for the evening. What have you to say?”

“It is none of your concern,” Thranduil said as he stood and began to walk down the long corridor.

“ _Ada_ ,” Legolas said impatiently.

“Never you mind.”

\---

“I have ten architects and stonemasons who would be of use—”

“More so than our own? I think not.”

“Your people may be the most accomplished with stone, but they are certainly not the only ones acquainted with the concept of making a cave habitable. Or do you find my own palace inhospitable?”

“This will take delicate work and secrets the Dwarves will not share with outsiders. If stonemasons are needed for the larger caverns, we will request them.”

“Fine. I also have gardeners and hunters; the cost of excavation will be drastically lowered if you need not barter with Men for all your goods.”

“That would be very agreeable, yes.”

Thranduil and Gloin hammered out the details of the agreement for some time, while Legolas and Gimli happily entertained Gimli’s young niece and nephew, and his mother and sister bent over a rough plan of the Glittering Caves and talked of stone. Thranduil listened to the sounds of happy chatter and felt a smile creep, unbidden, to his lips. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps they would be happy together… happy enough to stave away the darkness.

He sighed and heard Gloin sit back in his chair with a grunt, and smiled wryly at the thought that the Dwarf’s thoughts ran along the same line.

“Great deal of trouble they’re putting us through,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Thranduil agreed, pushing a hand through his hair. “They do seem quite determined to be married, don’t they?”

“Hmph. I put the blame for that entirely at your door, by the by.”

“How do you mean?” he asked with a frown, and his suspicions were aroused by the fact that Legolas’s voice abruptly ceased its canting lullaby.

Gloin shifted in his chair again and his hand slapped against his thigh—not in anger, but certainly in irritation.

“Well it’s not _my_ people who made it so a wedding could take place without kin or witnesses. Very foolish thing to do, in my opinion. Why, if all it takes to wed is a tumble and some blessings I’m surprised your marriages last as long as they do…”

“Do you mean to tell me,” Thranduil asked in an icy voice, “that they are already wed?”

“In a manner of speaking. Not Dwarvishly, of course.”

Gimli and Legolas had been in Eryn Lasgalen for four weeks when Thranduil finally decided that a king was under no obligation to be polite.


End file.
